


Please Leave a Message

by SvengoolieCat



Series: Sven's 007Fest '17 Scribbles [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Homesickness, Isolation, M/M, One-Shot, rethinking major life decisons, social claustrophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-03 02:15:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11522424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SvengoolieCat/pseuds/SvengoolieCat
Summary: He’d been chasing his melancholy all the way to the bottom of a bottle.Again, the voicemail answered.“Tell me to come home,” he said.





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**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I don't usually do angst--my normal style of writing skews towards fluff and humor. But, it's Angst Week in the 007 Games so I figured I'd give it a go or two.  
> And whoops, accidental rare pair.

 

 

Bond was on a beach in Greece, supposedly enjoying retirement six months after Spectre, when the monotony of his own existence caught up to him. Laying out in the sun, with no demands on his time or person, surrounded by people on holiday but who will inevitably go home, go back to work, back to their lives, suddenly seemed bleak. They would leave him behind, these faceless, nameless strangers.

He couldn’t quite shake the idea that he’s somehow at the beginning of the end. Or the end of the beginning. Or perhaps just somewhere he’s been before, too many times.

Beside him, Madeleine Swann lounged on a chair underneath an umbrella and a thick layer of sunscreen. She had her Kindle, and from the blank look of concentration, she was probably reading the latest issue of whatever medical or psychological journals she subscribed to. Every so often, she tapped the screen to make a note. The entire process was silent: poised, economical, and professional. Hardly a flicker of eyes, or a change of expression. No condemnation, but no passion either. He couldn’t quite tell if she agreed with whatever she was reading, or even liked it.

In the beginning of their escape, Bond had liked nothing better than the challenge to muss up that cool professionalism, but was very rarely rewarded with success. Not for the first time, but perhaps the most keenly, he longed for the sound of another soft, professional voice and steady pair of green eyes. He wanted to hear that wry voice in his ear, muttering about substandard tea, or irritating 00s, or making bad jokes and puns before giggling at them. He wanted those green eyes to look at him with something other than the understanding and heartbreak he'd last seen, and sometimes saw on restless nights when dreams wouldn't give him peace.

“You’re staring, James,” she said, finally looking up at him.

“You’re lovely,” he said, the flirtation a reflex more than a conscious decision. Cool blue eyes studied him, traced over his browning body with consternation.

“You’re going to get skin cancer,” she said. She held out the half-empty bottle of sunscreen. “At least put this on, if you don’t want to cover up or share my umbrella.”

The look in her eyes and the steady hand holding out the bottle brooked no argument. “It would be a shame for you to survive years of being a spy only to die of melanoma.”

The words felt like a bucket of ice water thrown on him.

He’d never had to wonder if his habits were going to kill him. He smoked, drank, laid out in the sun, and abused the odd pain med because his needs were always in the moment. The future wasn’t important when he never expected to live long enough to see it all through.

But here, in this moment, was a beautiful woman looking at him with increasing concern, _because he might get skin cancer and die_ _and wouldn’t that be a shame_.

The world shifted just slightly to the left. In the moment his fingertips brushed hers as he took the bottle from her and sightlessly cracked it open, he saw his entire life laid out. They’d settle somewhere. She’d get a job. He’d have to get a job—real, actual, legal, gainful employment. Buy a house. Maybe along the way an accident would arrive in the form of a tiny, squalling human being or two. Get a dog. Spend weekends fussing over hedges and washing the car. He’d drink too much, she’d get angry. Maybe one of them would be unhappy enough to have an affair.

Oh, God. His heart beat double-time in his chest. What the hell had he done? What was he doing?

“I’m going to find a gyro, would you like me to bring you one?” he asked. He reached for his shorts and a tshirt, shook the sand from both.

Those eyes studied him, took him apart. “I would, thank you,” she said, interpreting his need to be alone for a few moments correctly and turning back to her reading.

She’d bring it up again, later. Perhaps over dinner. She couldn’t quite stop getting into his head, and that was one place he couldn’t allow her.

Bond trudged through deep sand off the beach. He checked that he’d brought his wallet, and came up with it and his phone.

In the shade of a tree he stared at his phone. It was new. Hardly any numbers loaded into it at all. Little more than a burner, really.

He punched in a number he’d memorized years before, listened to it ring, and prayed it was still working.

The voicemail answered, its robotic and impersonal voice telling him to leave a message. Tongue-tied, Bond hung up.

 

Two weeks later, he tried again. He’d been chasing his melancholy all the way to the bottom of a bottle.

Again, the voicemail answered.

“Tell me to come home,” he said. That was all. After thirty seconds, there was a click in his ear and the line went dead.

 

It became a habit, calling the number and getting the voicemail.

“Tell me to come home and I will. Next plane out.”

“Do you ever answer your phone?”

“I miss everything. London. Work. Bad English food. Tanner yelling at me about my paperwork.”

"I think a cat adopted me. I don't know what to do with it. It bites. Do you want a third cat?"

Then, in a moment of actual honesty: “I miss you."

 

The next time he called, the number had been disconnected.


End file.
